Smile, breathe, and go slowly.

– Thich Nhat Hanh

Fallout Boy

'You intend to carry out this farce?'

My hands stilled, mirror reflecting fingers gripping a loosened tie. The firm's restroom was empty – a fact I made sure of before locking myself in the multi-throned chamber. A simple question, belying amusement, curiosity, and feigned disinterest simultaneously.

We had no time for such games.

"Everything's already arranged." I argued softly, shrugging out of the tan suit jacket before hanging it over a stall door, folding the tie into a side pocket. Brandishing a ready-made packet, I faced myself once more in the mirror, Kuwabara's instructions ringing in my ears. "If I cancel now, she may never give us another chance."

I felt him frown as I pressed powder to too-pale areas, skin not yet convinced of returned health. Thankfully, this addition was all that was needed – I doubt I could apply mascara alone.

Then, while checking dandelion fabric for remnants of foundation, 'We should just kill her.'

My body stiffened without permission, arms falling away, gaze rising to the mirror. "You believe she is dangerous?"

'Women are dangerous by nature, though you will discover that for yourself.' He mused, limbs shifting within me, the unpleasant sensation of skin-against-skin making me shudder. 'You are young, Shuichi; naive. If she knows our secret, she can easily conceal it.'

"Yes, but she cannot hide anything from you."

He pressed no further and I left him to his thoughts. The walk to Black Lotus was uneventful, air choked by rumbling tires and pollution most humans would not notice. Trees caught in autumn's embrace lined the streets, each in various stages of change, willingly shedding their leaves in preparation for winter. Flaking bark joined swaths of reds, yellows and oranges, crunching between my feet and lukewarm pavement. Normally, I paid no attention to dead leaves yet now the shades would not fade. Telltale scarlet, crimson, vermilion–

A flowing red dress, thick and luscious as fresh blood.

I paused at the abruptness of the image, the sudden thickness gripping my throat. Gradually, the sensation faded and I continued on, conscious of cursory glances and thankful no one had time to stop this time of day. I'd taken a full hour for lunch in anticipation of this meeting; a precaution, hopefully an unnecessary one. If all went well, this would clear up any uncertainties about Odawara and further contact would be unnecessary.

Otherwise, the situation may call for more drastic measures.

Again, I saw her bathed in moonlight, silver lining her hair, porcelain skin glimmering like that of a doll's. Truly, she resembled a doll that night, a finely crafted plaything left to the world of men. The lines of her arms, sculpted calves aiding her flight; the vicious baring of teeth, hair gracefully curving against an artery. Though nearly a week had passed, the image refused to leave.

Those eyes haunted my dreams.

'Focus.'

Laughter from nearby and I stopped, assaulted by a chrysanthemum breeze. Black Lotus stood to the right, nestled warmly behind boxes bursting with variations of the flower. White, red, purple and blue waved against painted brick and glass, each speaking at once in stage whispers I couldn't make out.

Without warning, the crisp air became stifling, sweat collecting at my nape to drip down my spine, my ribs, collect in the hollow of my throat. A whirlpool churned fresh fruit and coffee in my gut, bile creeping up my esophagus with a spider's grace. Too-bright light dotted my vision, each sound too loud yet strangely quiet. The cloth against my skin itched, burned:

I could not do this.

'Shuichi.'

My name on his tongue – strong, sure – and panic fled, dissolving until only a measure remained. Sighing, I forced myself to relax, loosening the topmost button before entering.

Warmth, chatter and cheery lighting greeted at the door, along with a call from behind the counter. Jacket creaking as it slipped from my arms, I breathed in the familiar aromas of steaming tea and black coffee, alongside various creams, day-old grounds, as well as the blooms gracing vases throughout the cafe. A barista took my order and I scanned the establishment once more, surprised at the amount of customers. Then again, it was lunchtime and many people would have little time to eat elsewhere.

Just as the mousy woman pressed the beverage into my hand, she appeared. Odawara sat a window-side table staring absently at a cup of tea, heedless of the chrysanthemums tapping the glass. Hair tucked behind a dainty ear, she appeared uncaring that both elbows rested on the table alongside a nibbled pastry, mouth pressed against her palm. Despite the chill in the air, she wore a sleeveless black blouse with a high collar, crossed legs raising the pencil skirt just above the knee. No jewelry graced her hands or head; no necklaces adorned her neck. Rather, the lack of fabric drew attention to well-formed arms, an open challenge to the world–

A sign of power.

For a moment, I simply stared, discomfort forgotten. She continued watching her cup, shoulders slack, as if whatever she saw there captivated and held no interest simultaneously. Checking the time, I noted fifteen minutes remained until our meeting should start, yet she seemed to have been here for quite a while.

At least, the empty saucers and cups to her left indicated such.

"Ms. Odawara?"

Had I not been watching closely, I would have missed the slight parting of her lips, the barest tension entering those shoulders. She hadn't heard me approach, though I made no move to conceal myself. As she righted herself in the chair, however, I saw why: twin cords hung from her ears, silently singing music only she could hear.

She made no effort to remove them.

Forcing dry lips to move, I smiled, motioning to the table. "May I join you?"

Black-lined eyes flitted to the clock at my back; her apathetic gaze would have made Hiei proud.

Taking the seat opposite her, my mind traveled once more to that mishap meeting, her skin dyed by the night and that endless, flowing dress. "Has anyone ever mentioned you look ravishing in red?"

The faintest tightening of brows, something utterly dark creeping into those eyes. I swallowed, quickly changing tactics. "Apologies, I meant no offense." A hand crept up the back of my neck, fingertips grazing various seeds. "Honestly, I do not know where to begin."

"An apology would be nice." She picked up her current cup of tea, taking a generous sip. "If you came with anything else in mind, leave. Now. Don't waste my time."

Yoko chuckled at the callous tone, indifference speckled with annoyance, if not anger. "I truly am sorry for what happened. Please believe that I meant no harm–"

"So what, you were following me around that night just for fun?"

"No, that's not what I–"

"You made me look like a fool and, worse, you hurt one of my coworkers."

My companion appeared truly amused as I struggled not to wilt beneath her glare, the clipped, tight words. "I thought they meant to harm you."

"Even if they did, that's my problem, not yours." Another sip and she paused, raising a brow. "Don't tell me you're some kind of closet pervert?"

Outright laughter this time and I gaped at her, blood rushing to my face. "N-no, of course not–"

"Then tell me why you were stalking me in the middle of the night."

I hesitated before taking a sip of my own drink, wetting my lips and reaching into my pocket. Taking a breath, I retrieved the well-read note, memorized creases caressing my palm before surrendering to her hand. Unfurling the paper easily with a thumb and forefinger, she snapped it open with a flick of the wrist, lifting the pastry.

We watched as she read her own writing, face flat, not unlike the gleaming blade of a sword. Lips parting, she took a bite of danish, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. Only her eyes and jaw moved, each meandering leisurely toward their destinations. Again and again, she read the simple lines adorning the napkin, poor paper worn in places by anxious fingers, ink smeared upon the last line. No crumbs or hints of glaze speckled her mouth or tabletop, despite the harsh words, the sharp elbows still propped upon the table.

Finally, she swallowed the morsel, gaze rising as she returned the note. "The lines spoke to me." I allowed quietly, setting the worn napkin aside, folding both hands atop cheery wood. "That you would write in two languages, eliminating any chance of miscommunication, all for someone you did not know." She neither confirmed or denied the sentiment, simply watched with those dark eyes. "I wished to see the woman who would go to such lengths."

The words smacked of truth, enough so that most would avoid the holes, everything left unsaid. Not her, though; not for a moment. I watched her shift to sit the least bit taller, tucking steepled fingers beneath her chin, pressed lips brandished like a weapon. No, she did not believe me, testified by the hardness of her eyes, that protected throat, the sudden stillness gripping her–

The stillness of a predator.

"I only want what is due, Mr. Minamino. Do you know what your escapade cost?" When I did not respond to the question – preoccupied with the tickling at my nape, the danger in her voice, silky and cold as the frozen spans of Siberia – she continued. "My coworker had to have emergency surgery; you ruptured his ear drum." I stifled the urge to reach for my hair, to create distance as she leaned closer, never once raising her voice. "The difference between what the hospital charged and insurance refused to pay fell on me."

"Why?" I cleared my throat, ashamed at the stain in my voice, the squeak she was not meant to hear.

Somewhere deep inside I could not quite place, Yoko smirked, lips curling my insides.

"Insurance companies are strict with their policies, all the things we miss in that tiny, fine print."

She retreated to her seat and the expected sigh did not come, relief refused to replace adrenaline. I wanted to drink, wet my parched throat, yet dared not move hands which even now itched for the feel of thorns. Eyes were upon us – a gaze I could not see – but I refused to look away from her, those swirling dark pools which held everything and nothing. I did not fear her wrath; I'd experienced a woman's scorn firsthand with Keiko, Shizuru's frigidity branded upon my brain. No, I did not fear her, yet something about this woman held me in place, conscious of each breath, every subtle movement–

All with one look.

"We each have an insurance policy through work, though that only covers unavoidable accidents on-set: falls, car crashes, getting stabbed in a knife fight, you get the idea." She waved away these articles – the details of her work – as if they were nothing. Taking up her cup for another sip, I noted the thin scars dotting the backs of her hands, knobby knuckles, fingertips thick with callouses–

Surely, all of these could not come from acting?

"What happened with Yatsu doesn't qualify as a 'work accident'."

My brows rose before I could catch them. Again, the alleyway flashed; bright lights, camera lenses, the red of believable blood on her lip. "How so?"

"Because of you." Another sip, this time tentative; she was no doubt reaching the bottom of her cup. "If one of us – let's say I punched him out of reflex during a shoot, busted his ear. Everything would be fine, covered neatly under the work-related accident clause because I, a coworker, struck him on-set." A nibble of her pastry, the careful licking of lips. "Instead, someone not involved in the industry, a perfect stranger, appeared out of nowhere and did serious damage." She set the cup down with a decisive 'click', eyes roving back to me. "That falls outside the realm of our contract with this particular company – they refused to give him anything."

Working in a firm myself, I knew contracts, knew what she said was inside the realm of possibility.

Still, one thing did not add up. "Why you? Why were you held responsible for the expenses?"

Her gaze darkened, hands sheathed once more beneath her chin. "The director believed we knew each other, all because you came to 'save' me and I blew up at you."

Guilt tickled my gut and I gripped slack fingers, shoulders rolling back. "I will speak to your supervisor."

She laughed, a sharp, harsh sound. "That ship has sailed, Mr. Minamino; the surgery's done, paid in-full by Yatsu and yours truly."

Already my hand reached for my wallet, hips lifting for easy access. "How much?"

Odawara stilled, all mirth vanishing. "You think money is going to make this go away?"

Jaw set, I retrieved the slim leather casing. My pleasant mask still remained though it wore thin, I could tell as much from her calm. "How much were you charged, Ms. Odawara?"

Taking the cord of one earbud, she twisted the dark thing, chin propped in her hand. "500,000 yen."

This time, guarding my thoughts came easily, professional courtesy shining through as I glimpsed inside for an amount I knew lay elsewhere. Matters of money were easy enough to deal with – I'd learned from the best, after all. "I only have 10,000 on-hand, though you are more than welcome to it. If you will wait for me to run by the bank–"

A snort and she shook her head, still fingering the cord. "I don't want your money."

Even without Yoko's intuition, I knew she spoke the truth. Back straight, no nervous gestures whatsoever; steady, even breaths, onyx eyes never once breaking their hold. No deceit lay there, no hope for material gain.

What could she possibly want?

I asked as much and she laughed once more, pitches flowing like a forgotten mountain stream. "I don't want anything from you."

The acrid lie bit beneath my tongue, clung to my teeth though I forced myself to smile. "Surely, this incident has effected your finances, Ms. Odawara – few can surrender such a sum without warning."

"I'm not most people." She supplied, frowning at the empty cup, chest cushioned atop one arm. I did my best to hold her gaze, to not stare at the ample breasts fitted to her small frame.

Yoko, however, did not share my ideals.

"I don't want your money or your pity, Mr. Minamino."

I swallowed past his attentions, through thoughts of what lay beneath those clothes and the sound of her voice, cold and smooth as sapphires. "What do you want, then?"

She traced the saucer's rim with a finger, clear coating reflecting the porcelain's gleam. "I want you to remember." Brushing the floral pattern with her nail, she tipped her head just so, hair falling across one cheek. "I want you to remember the world doesn't revolve around you – that your choices effect everyone around you, even people you don't know."

Once more, my mind flew to the note she'd left, Yoko's observation that we'd been watched for an indecipherable amount of time. I'd kept to the same routine for months: traveling to work, then this cafe before returning home. How long had this woman watched me sit here, lost to my own thoughts and whatever book I had on-hand?

How did she know my short-comings without even knowing my name?

Clearing my throat, I leaned forward, hands clasped still around my wallet. "Allow me to make this up to you."

She waved away the demand, intent on the last bite of pastry. "I already told you–"

"Please." I held up a hand and she paused, morsel halfway to her mouth. "I simply wish to make things right. This has nothing to do with money or emotions. Besides," I sipped my now cold drink, forcing a smile I in no way felt. "Not settling this with you would mean throwing away everything mother taught me."

Her brows rose at this. "You have a mom?"

The question quirked my brow in return. "Doesn't everyone?"

She held my gaze a moment longer before expelling a small sigh, pastry disappearing between her lips. "Alright." Her mouth slipped into a frown, nose wrinkling just so. "What did you have in mind?"

'She made a fool of you.'

"Perhaps, though I am willing to play the fool if such produces results."

Moving back to my apartment had been less of a hassle than expected. After announcing my intentions of moving back to Kuwabara, I'd scheduled an appointment with a cleaning service. The apartment had not been properly cleaned weeks before the incident and it took two days for the place to be habitable again, along with several treatments to the floors and other surfaces to remove the smell.

Understandably, some furniture had to be discarded, damaged beyond repair by either biological factors or by Yoko's actions, which saved my life. The cleaners were all too willing to allow me to handle the defunct items, accepting money exceeding the agreed upon amount for their trouble. Removing broken, wretched wood took little time, as did two trash bags filled with clothes. I disposed of them in two trips downstairs, thankful for the darkness of a new moon masking inhuman strength.

Slipping onto the deserted ground floor, I made my way to the rows of post office boxes, walls of steel lit only by the streetlight outside the building. One day management would fix the lighting here, though such made my task easier.

I retrieved my mail – a healthy stack over two inches thick – before retreating up the stairs and into my apartment, locking the door still smelling of fresh paint. Both shoes set orderly in the genkan, I picked the still-steaming cup of coffee from the kitchen counter and took a sip, moss-like carpet massaging my toes. "Did you sense anything from our interaction?"

'She's hiding something.'

Smiling, I drank again, bittersweet liquid dancing upon my tongue. "Everyone has secrets, my friend."

I felt him frown, eyes narrowing to a glare. 'Don't patronize me.'

"What do you think, then? Is there cause for concern?"

He fell silent, as if gathering his thoughts. Then, 'She is . . . interesting.' I leaned against the half-wall separating the kitchenette from my living room, allowing myself to relish the subtle joys of home. 'That woman commanded the conversation from beginning to end, made you appear foolish, weak, without offering anything in return.'

"Correct. We're still unsure if she knows anything about you or, if she does, to what extent–"

My tongue stilled, eyes widening as I sorted through the mail. There were the expected bills and statements, as well as a few junk items. The majority of the envelopes, however, bore the same return address, characters scrawled in a familiar hand:

Yusuke.

Brow knitting, I set the coffee down, thumbing through the pile. Twenty-eight; twenty-eight letters, one for each day since I was forced to leave my apartment. Kuwabara had said he would handle Yusuke, that there was no need to worry about him prying during my recovery.

What on earth could he have said to prompt this?

Inside each was a recollection of the day's events, each from Yusuke's perspective. Understandably, this included grumbling about his wife's nagging, Atsuko's alcoholic tendencies, as well as random gossip overheard at his food cart. In almost each lay a construed rant about the merging of two worlds and demon politics as a whole, nearly barren of details though the sentiment shone through–

My friend felt the weight of this transition as much as I.

Also, nestled in each letter was a picture of sorts, witty caricatures of customers or people we knew, including images of Yusuke bending an infant Koenma over one knee for a spanking. Also, in each lay a penis of some sort, whether drawn or captured on film from his own member.

The juvenile act warmed my heart while bringing a sobering thought. Yusuke hadn't quite forgiven me for shutting him out. He knew something had happened and wouldn't let me forget, wouldn't stop until I answered for the crimes against our friendship.

I needed to settle things with him sooner rather than later.

'That boy is an idiot.'

"True, though he means well." Returning each letter to its envelope, I set them on the counter, turning my thoughts inward. "How can we divine if Odawara knows about you?"

'Give it time. Humans cannot hide such secrets for long.'

I remembered his observing her, the way she moved, spoke, ate, each detail locked away for later use. However, I couldn't forget his reaction to her wit, her subtle control, her body wrapped in all that black. Something kept me from mentioning these things, guilt at the situation I'd put her in and the possibility of being exposed holding my tongue. Surely, one more outing could not hurt.

What did it matter if Yoko was attracted to her?

A/N: Hello and welcome back! Sorry for the delay, everyone – Covid-19 has effectively shut down all reliable internet sources for the foreseeable future, so I don't know when I'll be able to update next. Fear not, though, I am writing and love to hear from you! Please don't refrain from dropping a PM or review with thoughts on the story!

As always, thank you for your reviews, follows and favorites. Each brings a smile to my face.

So, Kurama and Azumi's meeting did not go as planned, and he and Yoko are no closer to finding answers. With Yoko possibly having ulterior motives, what will happen now – how can Kurama possibly make this up to her? Also, how will he settle things with Yusuke?

Azumi's up next; see you next time!